Notes on Life and Letters | Page 9

and cursory acquaintance with my kind,
I am inclined to think that the last utterance will formulate, strange as it
may appear, some hope now to us utterly inconceivable. For mankind
is delightful in its pride, its assurance, and its indomitable tenacity. It
will sleep on the battlefield among its own dead, in the manner of an
army having won a barren victory. It will not know when it is beaten.
And perhaps it is right in that quality. The victories are not, perhaps, so
barren as it may appear from a purely strategical, utilitarian point of
view. Mr. Henry James seems to hold that belief. Nobody has rendered
better, perhaps, the tenacity of temper, or known how to drape the robe
of spiritual honour about the drooping form of a victor in a barren strife.
And the honour is always well won; for the struggles Mr. Henry James
chronicles with such subtle and direct insight are, though only personal
contests, desperate in their silence, none the less heroic (in the modern
sense) for the absence of shouted watchwords, clash of arms and sound
of trumpets. Those are adventures in which only choice souls are ever
involved. And Mr. Henry James records them with a fearless and
insistent fidelity to the PERIPETIES of the contest, and the feelings of
the combatants.
The fiercest excitements of a romance DE CAPE ET D'EPEE, the
romance of yard-arm and boarding pike so dear to youth, whose
knowledge of action (as of other things) is imperfect and limited, are
matched, for the quickening of our maturer years, by the tasks set, by
the difficulties presented, to the sense of truth, of necessity--before all,
of conduct--of Mr. Henry James's men and women. His mankind is
delightful. It is delightful in its tenacity; it refuses to own itself beaten;
it will sleep on the battlefield. These warlike images come by
themselves under the pen; since from the duality of man's nature and
the competition of individuals, the life-history of the earth must in the
last instance be a history of a really very relentless warfare. Neither his
fellows, nor his gods, nor his passions will leave a man alone. In virtue

of these allies and enemies, he holds his precarious dominion, he
possesses his fleeting significance; and it is this relation in all its
manifestations, great and little, superficial or profound, and this relation
alone, that is commented upon, interpreted, demonstrated by the art of
the novelist in the only possible way in which the task can be
performed: by the independent creation of circumstance and character,
achieved against all the difficulties of expression, in an imaginative
effort finding its inspiration from the reality of forms and sensations.
That a sacrifice must be made, that something has to be given up, is the
truth engraved in the innermost recesses of the fair temple built for our
edification by the masters of fiction. There is no other secret behind the
curtain. All adventure, all love, every success is resumed in the
supreme energy of an act of renunciation. It is the uttermost limit of our
power; it is the most potent and effective force at our disposal on which
rest the labours of a solitary man in his study, the rock on which have
been built commonwealths whose might casts a dwarfing shadow upon
two oceans. Like a natural force which is obscured as much as
illuminated by the multiplicity of phenomena, the power of
renunciation is obscured by the mass of weaknesses, vacillations,
secondary motives and false steps and compromises which make up the
sum of our activity. But no man or woman worthy of the name can
pretend to anything more, to anything greater. And Mr. Henry James's
men and women are worthy of the name, within the limits his art, so
clear, so sure of itself, has drawn round their activities. He would be the
last to claim for them Titanic proportions. The earth itself has grown
smaller in the course of ages. But in every sphere of human perplexities
and emotions, there are more greatnesses than one--not counting here
the greatness of the artist himself. Wherever he stands, at the beginning
or the end of things, a man has to sacrifice his gods to his passions, or
his passions to his gods. That is the problem, great enough, in all truth,
if approached in the spirit of sincerity and knowledge.
In one of his critical studies, published some fifteen years ago, Mr.
Henry James claims for the novelist the standing of the historian as the
only adequate one, as for himself and before his audience. I think that
the claim cannot be contested, and that the position is unassailable.
Fiction is history, human history, or it is nothing. But it is also more

than that;